15 Western Short Stories — page 23: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

A PLACE OF HIS OWN occasionally he slammed a clumsy thoughtfully after the dripping figure punch that,smashed through the fore- man’s guard, and when they hit, they hurt. The two men grunted and slugged, and Black swore, in a hoarse, panting monotone, Then, without feel- ing anything, or knowing how it happened, Jeff was down. He saw the foreman’s boot coming, and knew that Black meant to stomp him. He rolled, and grabbed the foot and twisted, and now both struggling fighters were on the ground. Jeff was the first to scramble to his feet. He reached down long arms and grabbed Tim Black like he would a heavy bale of hay, and, grunting with the effort, heaved the foreman out into the bog. Jeff, breathing hard, watched warily while Black floundered his way to shore, but he needn’t have worried. The fight was out of Tim. He glared at Jeff and got on his horse and rode out to turn the cattle now coming down to the tank in front of Lawton and his men. Jeff was waiting when the Old Man rode up. “You might as well get the bad news,” he told the Old Man, reck- lessly, “I found that cow bogged down, and while I was getting her out, I lost the others. Black didn’t like it, and we had a fuss.” The Old Man studied Jeff as though he were seeing him for the first time. He saw the muck on Jeff, and the slimy rope. He _ looked a9 of the foreman, and he looked, finally, at the muddy old cow. “You whip Black?” “IT don’t guess so,” Jeff admitted, “Tt wasn’t much of a fight, nohow. More of a draw—we tore up the ground sorne, and Black knocked me down. I throwed him in the tank. He hited i,” The Old Man looked sternly at Jeff, but, incredibly, it seemed to Jeff that there was a twinkle in the frosty eyes beneath the bushy white brows. But when Lawton spoke, his voice was dry and business-like. “I pay Tim a salary to run my out- fit, and he’s a good foreman. If he Says you're fired, then you're fired.” The Old Man’s gaze returned as if fascinated to the ribby old cow. “I’m not saying you did the wisest thing, understand, but I reckon a man who'd go to that much work and trouble to try to save a wore-out old cow might be worth money to me, down at the Springs.” “Til make a dicker with you. You've got your year. But don’t go throwing my foreman in any more bog holes, hear?” “No sir, I won’t.” Jeff promised, but he hadn’t really heard anything ex- cept the wonderful words “make a dicker,’ and his head was already whirling with glittering new plans... @® END THE QUIET KID the gun out of his hand in one twist. A moment later, the trouble-maker found himself supported embarassing- ly above Sam’s head, as the bartender headed swiftly for the door. Jack Dur- ranger was thrown some forty feet, where he landed in a heap in the mid- dle of the dusty road. Sam sever saw any more of Jack Durranger. But a far more serious and danger- ous menace presented itself sometime afterwards, when a group of four had been interrupted in their attempt to raid the Tucson City Bank. They couidn’t get back to their horses, so they barricaded themselves in the SILVER STAR and began to shoot it out. They kept a gun on Sam, so he got himself a bottle and sat down, ap- parently to have a few drinks while he waited. He waited only until the gun- (cont'd from page 16) man guarding him turned his head suddenly toward the door, then he threw the bottle with all his might, and it crashed against the gunman’s head, knocking him sprawling. Sam was at him like a flash. He scooped up his gun and began shooting it out with the three other gunmen inside. The fight lasted almost an hour, and when the shooting stopped, they found Sam bleeding from three gun wounds but alive, and the three gun- men dead. The one Sam popped with the bottle, they locked in the city jail. So the next time you read a West- ern story and the bartender is por- trayed as a weak, cowardly creature, just remember that they weren’t all that way. No man stood more for the Oid West ideal of unselfish courage than bartender Sam Gentry. @END cCOmiclbooks CO Al